


Christmas Cards 2002

by kuzibah



Series: Christmas Cards [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Hanukkah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22741813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuzibah/pseuds/kuzibah
Summary: This is the fourth Buffy Christmas series I wrote, in 2002. These were also written for the Buffy Cross and Stake message board but by this time I had my own fanfic page at Geocities. As with the previous series, each chapter is a short stand-alone story, although they are intended to be read as a set. To refresh your memory, this was the middle of the seventh season of "Buffy" and the fourth season of "Angel," and the stories take place in that timeframe, although, given the storylines on the show at the time, these are somewhat out of the timeline, verging on AU. In my Christmas Cards world, Spike is not being slowly tortured to death, LA is not burning, there sure as hell was no AMF, the neonatal Slayers are not in town, etc. Essentially, Spike is as he was pre-CwDP, but already living with the Scoobs, and there is no imminent danger from the first. And in LA, Cordy is back and living with Connor, but the badness hasn’t started there, either. The chapter top notes are the same ones I posted on them at the time.Also, there is a tiny Harry Potter crossover in one chapter. If you're here for Harry Potter fic only, it's Chapter two.
Series: Christmas Cards [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627252
Kudos: 2





	1. In Sin and Error Pining: Spike

**4:12 p.m., December 22nd, 2002**

_“Careful,” Dawn said, handing Spike a tissue-wrapped ornament. The vampire took it reverently and undid the wrappings. The glass bauble lay in the hollow of his palm, fragile as an eggshell, and Spike stared at it, unmoving. His mind was a century away._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

London, Christmastide 1889~

Spike glared down from the attic window as he watched Angelus load Dru, Darla, and two weeks’ worth of dresses and jewelry into the carriage for their “holiday” in France. Spike had tried to understand the reasons he was being left alone, really, he had: their hostess in France did not know him, he hadn’t been included in the invitation, they needed someone to care for the house now that they’d eaten all the servants, and anyway, he’d probably hate France. And truth be told, at any other time he’d welcome two weeks out from under Darla’s critical eye. But now…

He sighed. It had probably been his own fault for letting himself get so caught up in the anticipation of the season, but after last year and all the fun they’d had, not to mention not being treated like a complete dunce by Angelus for a few days, well, who could blame him. He’d even gotten gifts for them all, weeks ago. All for naught.

Angelus had made a half-hearted attempt to make it up to him, taking him aside privately and handing him a roll of notes equaling several hundred pounds, and encouraging the younger vampire to have fun on his own, but then Darla had breezed in to list all his responsibilities like he was a lowly minion, and Angelus had gone cold and distant again, and the moment passed.

Below, Spike saw Dru’s red bonnet tip back and she opened her red lips too catch the snowflakes swirling down. Their eyes met and she laughed for a moment before Darla was pushing her into the carriage. Behind them, Angelus glanced up at the attic window, too, and Spike thought he saw a flash of regret at leaving, then he, too, was into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip, and they moved into the traffic, and were gone.

Spike sighed again and went down the stairs to Angelus’s study. He piled the fire high, until the room was almost unbearably warm, then helped himself to Angelus’s whiskey. If he was to make merry on his own, he intended to be very merry, indeed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He awoke the next night, still in his clothes, sprawled on the study floor, his mouth tasting of cotton. The fireplace was cold, since he’d neglected to bank the embers in his stupor, and Spike cursed to himself as he rose.

He left the study and wandered through the cold house to his own room. He reached for the ewer to fill his wash-bowl, but found it empty, naturally. Muttering again, he descended to the kitchen and worked the pump handle up and down several times. Icy water splashed into the basin, splattering him. Spike recoiled.

He looked around the kitchen. This fireplace was cold, too, as was every one in the house, most likely. Spike considered trying to re-light them himself, but the unnatural flammability of his vampire body, along with Angelus’s constant warnings about the same, had made him a bit paranoid about getting too close to open flame.

He could check into a hotel, he supposed. In fact, that was probably Angelus’s intent when he’d given Spike the roll of money, but the idea only depressed him further.

There was only one solution, and Spike pumped some more ice-cold water to wash himself as best he could so he could implement it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The caretaker of the Fairgate Workhouse led Spike into a dimly-lit room where a group of young girls, some only children, and old women sat on the floor sorting through baskets of rags. The vampire had dressed in his best clothes, including a top hat, but still the caretaker treated him with a barely-controlled contempt. 

“This ‘gentleman,’” the caretaker began, making the word sound like the most distasteful blasphemy, “wishes to hire a maid of all work. Anyone here have experience?”

The older women did not even glance up, and a number of the girls regarded him with suspicion. Slowly, in the back, one small hand went up.

“You, there, girl,” the caretaker pointed at her. “You’ve done maid’s work?”

The girl stood and brushed sooty curls back from her eyes. “I worked for a family,” she said, then quickly added, “they were foreign, and when they moved back to Italy, they neglected to write me a letter of reference. But if you’ll give me a chance, sir…”

Spike suppressed a smirk. “Foreign Employers” was a common explanation for “sacked without references,” but Angelus had taught him that these were the best servants for vampires: they were grateful for any kind of work, so they ignored a lot of goings-on, and even when they couldn’t, they had nowhere they could go. Spike had often joined Angelus on trips to workhouses just like this one to “fill the staff.”

“What’s your name,” Spike asked. 

“Mary Toles,” the girl said.

“I haven’t a housekeeper to supervise you,” Spike said. “Can you do all the chores on your own?”

Mary raised her chin and looked Spike in the eye. “I can,” she said. “As I said, just give me a chance.”

This one had spirit, Spike thought. Probably something to do with her being sacked, but the vampire could respect it. “Very well,” he said. “I’d like you to start right away.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spike leaned back in the easy chair and watched Mary through half-closed eyes as she cleaned the ashes from the fireplace, then lit some newspaper to warm the chimney before at last setting the fire. The logs caught quickly and soon the study was suffused with warmth. Spike stretched his limbs as the chill went out of them.

Mary stood and addressed him with her hands respectfully folded. “I would like to go down and put things in order in the kitchen,” she said. “Will Sir be taking a late supper?”

Spike glanced at the mantel clock: nine p.m. “No,” he told Mary. “I’m going out. I won’t be back until morning. Don’t wake me up,” he instructed. “Make whatever you’d like to eat for yourself, and take any of the staff rooms in the attic. I shall see you tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded.

“And Mary,” Spike added. “You may want to adjust your schedule to accommodate my hours. It’s just more convenient.”

She nodded again. “Yes, Sir.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spike stumbled in close to dawn and made his way to his bedroom. It was warm, and logs had been laid in the fireplace recently. Spike sobered at once and listened for his servant, hearing her ascending the back stairs. She knocked softly on the door.

He admitted her and she set a warm mug on his night table. “It’s warm milk, with just a bit of rum,” she explained. “To help you sleep.” Then she stoked the fire, turned down the bed and left again.

Spike smiled, pleased that she was working out so well. He changed for bed, then crawled in, sleep stealing over him with the suddenness of daybreak.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He came awake, knowing instinctively it was midday even though the heavy curtains blocked all light from the outside. Immediately after, he became aware that someone stood beside the bed. A small warm hand touched his throat, right where his pulse should have been, and he heard a gasp, followed by an exasperated sigh.

With all vampiric speed, Spike’s hand snapped out to catch Mary by the wrist. She screamed. Spike propelled himself out of the bed, and pushed the shrieking maid across the room and back against the wardrobe. He had to slap her twice before she shut up.

“You were dead,” she said accusingly.

“And you tried to poison me,” Spike shot back, the pieces coming together in his head. “Hardly the best way to get a letter of reference, is it, my girl?”

The fear left her face, becoming hot rage, and she spat on the floor. “Bastard,” she snarled. “As if I’d want anything from the likes of you. You’re just another rich brat, and I’d kill you all if I could.”

Spike began to laugh, which only enraged Mary more. She curled her hand into claws and smacked it across Spike’s face, leaving lines of blood where her nails cut the skin.

Spike gave a howl of outrage, and his eyes flashed gold. “Bitch!” he hissed, and his face took on the true aspect of the vampire. “I’m going to enjoy eating you.”

Mary was unfazed. “Go ahead,” she said. “I hope I stick in your throat and choke you!”

This actually shocked Spike into silence, and he and the maid stared at each other for a long moment. Then they both began to laugh.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mary tilted the wine bottle to her lips, draining the last mouthful. She and Spike were both quite drunk, having shared their stories over a few bottles from Angelus’s wine cellar.

“Son of a bitch near raped me,” she slurred, summing up for the fifth or sixth time, “then had his mum sack me for ‘low moral character.’ Bastard.”

“’S not fair,” Spike agreed. “They shoulda thanked you for giving him the best shag he’ll ever have.” 

This set them both off laughing again.

“Don’t worry though,” Spike said. “We’ll take care of them.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The parlour-maid, a pretty redhead, answered the knock to find a young, handsomely dressed couple.

“Good evening,” the gentleman said cordially. “Is Miss Abigail at home?”

“Who may I say is calling?” the maid asked.

The gentleman produced a cream-colored calling card and presented it. “I am William Stilton, and this is my sister, Marguerite. We were introduced to Miss Abigail and her delightful brother Edward at a party last month, and wished to pay them a visit.”

The maid took the card and stepped back from the doorway. “I’ll see if Miss Abigail and Mr. Edward are receiving visitors this evening,” she said. “Won’t you come into the parlour?”

The two stepped into the entryway, smiling. “You’re too kind,” the young lady said.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mary shook the last few drops of champagne from the glass into her mouth. She was half-sprawled on an overstuffed loveseat, watching dispassionately as her vampiric squire squeezed the last bit of heart’s-blood from Edward, the spoiled dandy who had taken her virtue and her reputation.

The family Christmas tree shimmered in the corner of the room, silver tinsel reflecting the guttering light of the candles. The rest of the room was splattered with red. Mary knew she should feel horror, but she didn’t, only relief, and smug happiness at the memory of Edward begging her for his life.

The one she now knew as Spike stood over her, his face smeared with drying blood. “I never thought I’d make another vampire,” he said, “but you’ll be as fierce and ruthless as Angelus himself.”

She smiled wickedly. “Do it now,” she said. “Let me awaken on their corpses.”

Spike smiled back. “Tempting,” he said, “but no. It takes too long, and I’m burning this place to the ground tonight.”

Mary stood. “Pity,” she said, running one finger along the edge of a gilt table. “Still, I have all eternity to acquire the finer things.”

“This time tomorrow,” Spike told her, “none of that will even matter. All that will matter is blood and the kill.”

She crossed to the tree and removed a crystal star. She handed it to Spike. “For you,” she said. “To remember this night.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Spike was the first thing she saw when she awoke the next evening, the first thing she saw with her vampire eyes. He dressed her like a great doll in Darla’s velvet and pearls, and together they hunted in the marketplace, Christmas angels of death. They filled the house with decorations and gifts, sometimes enticing their victims in for visits and meals where they would feed so carefully, the mortals were unaware of the danger.

On Christmas Day, Spike received a message informing him his family would return before New Year’s, instead of after. When he informed Mary, she begged him to leave with her. He told her he could not, and in turn asked her to stay. She smiled sadly and said, “after all you have told me of them, did you think I would be someone’s servant again?”

Then she packed a small bag with the jewelry she had taken and the trinkets Spike had given her and left him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“My goodness,” Darla declared as she entered the parlour decked with greens and gold ribbons. “Someone’s been a busy little bee.”

“Bzzz, bzzz, but who’s been in the honey pot?” Drusilla said. “And who got stung?”

“It’s all quite lovely, William,” Angelus said seriously. “I had no idea you were so taken with Christmas, to do this on your own.”

“Well, after last year,” Spike said, half-hedging, half-sincere. “I just wanted it to be like it was.”

“Ooo, there’s prezzies for us all,” Drusilla cooed, discovering the packages beneath the tree.

“You did something,” Darla said suspiciously, “and now you’re hoping to soften us up before we find out.”

”For your information, I got these weeks ago,” Spike snapped. “When I thought I was one of you, and not just the help.”

“Darla, dove,” Angelus soothed, “it’s been a trying trip for us all. Let’s just relax and enjoy.”

Darla sat down, mollified for the time being, and Angelus turned to Spike. “William, I’ll see you in my study,” he said, and Darla smirked.

“I didn’t do anything,” Spike said as he entered, ignoring Angelus’s inspection of the empty liquor decanters.

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Angelus agreed, and Spike made a confused stutter before falling silent, the conversation having gone in a direction he hadn’t expected. Angelus sat in his chair by the fireplace and regarded the younger vampire thoughtfully. 

“I did not leave you here to punish you,” Angelus said, “and I regret having given you that impression.” He smiled ruefully. “In truth, we were visiting another of our line, who, quite frankly, is three times the bitch Darla can be.”

Spike gave a small gasp, and Angelus chuckled. “I trust you to take that no further, boy,” he said. “Darla is still my sire, and you’ll show her respect.” He sobered, then went on. “At any rate, she and Darla are fond of one another, though she has no use for me, and Drusilla amuses her, so she invited her specifically.” Angelus dropped his head back and flung out his arms dramatically. “It was every bit the ordeal I feared it would be,” he said, “and I knew if you were there, the temptation to leave the women and go to the cafés with you would be irresistible.” Angelus smiled again. “And we would both pay for that until next Christmastide.”

Cheered by his sire’s goodwill, Spike sank down to the carpet beside the fireplace. Angelus sat up and leaned towards him attentively. 

“So, that was my ‘holiday,’” Angelus said. “But tell me, how did you fare here all alone?”

Spike shrugged. “Well enough,” he said.

Angelus pushed himself to his feet. “Come along then,” he said. “I believe we have a Christmas celebration that’s long overdue.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Spike turned the cut-glass star very slowly in his fingers, watching the reflections of the tree lights slide over faceted surfaces, until he realized the chatter in the room had gone silent. Only the Nat King Cole CD played on. He looked up, startled, to find all five of the humans staring at him. Dawn spoke first._

_“Are you okay?” she asked._

_Spike looked at each of them, then nodded._

_“The star isn’t talking to you, is it?” Xander said, reaching for the ornament. “It isn’t telling you to bite anyone?”_

_Spike jerked the star out of Xander’s grasp even as Willow said a sharp, “Xander!”_

_“No,” Spike said calmly. “It just reminded me of someone.”_

_“You can keep it, if you want,” Buffy said softly. “We’ve got lots of other ornaments.”_

_Spike looked down at the glass bauble in his hands, then dangled it on the string from one finger. Carefully, he walked over to the tree and hung it from one branch._

_“Maybe after Christmas,” he said. “It should be here for now.”_


	2. With All of the Folks at Home: Wesley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on “With All of the Folks at Home”: Hey, it’s my first official cross-over! Hope that doesn’t bug some of you that much, but I’ve been wanting to do this one for awhile. Also, I apologize to all the British posters for my obvious and appalling ignorance of the British Public School system.

**2:34 a.m., December 20th, 2002**

Wesley awoke an hour or so before dawn to a rhythmic tapping at his bedroom window. He was just about to yell at whoever it was to knock it off or be written up for demerits, when he finally came awake enough to remember he wasn’t in his ground-floor dormitory room at the Watchers’ Academy, but was, in fact, in Los Angeles in his apartment on the fourth floor. He leapt from his bed and sped to the window, not even pausing as he drew his short-sword from where it was wedged under the mattress. He took hold of the curtain and jerked it open, startling a large barn owl that was perched on the ledge.

Once over the surprise, the owl fixed him with what Wesley took to be a meaningful stare, and then glanced at the window latch. It was only then Wesley noticed the letter under the owl’s foot, written on parchment and sealed with gold wax, and addressed to him in a broad, flowing hand. Wesley opened the window.

The owl picked up the letter in its beak, flew into the room, and perched on the back of an easy chair, staring at Wesley until he took the envelope.

The address read:  
Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (muggle)  
Los Angeles, California  
The United States of America

The sealing wax had been pressed with two stylized and intertwined “W”s, and the pre-printed address of “Gringott’s Bank, Cairo Branch, Egypt” had been crossed out and “William Weasley” written underneath. Wesley sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

The owl made a questioning hoot as if to ask whether Wesley intended to read the letter or not, so he broke the seal and shook open the parchment within.

“Dear Wesley,” it began. “I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me after all these years, and for that I must apologize. I always intended to keep in touch with you, but senior year was quite busy, and then real life took over… At any rate, I hope things have been well with you.

“I wish I could say this was a social letter, but unfortunately we are experiencing problems with vampires here in Egypt, and word is you are something of an expert in that field. So, if it’s not too presumptuous, I’d like to pop round on Dec. 23rd before heading home to the Burrows. 

“Send a reply with the owl. She will know how to find me.

“Your Friend,  
“Bill Weasley”

Memories washed over Wesley of his Junior year at the Watchers’ Academy, when there had been an influx of students mid-term as part of an “exchange program.”

Since both their last names began with W, Wesley had a boy named Bill Weasley assigned to share his single. The young man, tall with ginger hair, had arrived at the end of November.

At first, Wesley thought he might be mad, and then he began to suspect that Bill had grown up in some sort of anti-technological sect, for he was completely unfamiliar with common appliances such as telephones and radios. He wrote by candlelight, if Wesley was not around to turn on a lamp, on parchment with a feather quill, and wore a long, blue robe nearly everywhere he went.

He barely spoke to Wesley, spending most of his time with other exchange students, or reading and re-reading long letters from his mother with an anxious, worried look.

At Christmas he received a package from his mother: a sweater she’d knit herself, sweets made by companies Wesley had never heard of, and a family photo. Bill had offered to share the sweets, and as they ate he pointed out his family in the photo. 

“That’s mom and dad, of course,” he said, pointing to a plump woman and a balding man, then to each of the children. “Percy, there, is five, the twins, Fred and George, are three and absolute terrors, and the baby is Ron. I’ve another brother, too, Charlie, but he’s at school like me.”

Wesley stared at the photo, wide-eyed. “How did they get it to move?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In a rush, Bill had told him everything, of the secret world of wizards that lay right alongside that of “muggles,” or normal humans, and could be accessed through portals in train stations and behind pubs. He told of the wizard school, Hogwarts, where Bill was Head Boy himself, and the classes in conjuring, charms, and divination.

And then he told about the rise of a wizard so evil, it was dangerous to even speak his name aloud; so powerful that wizard families, including Bill’s parents, were sending their children to live in the muggle world, so they might be removed from the danger.

After that, Bill and Wesley were thick as thieves. Wesley showed the young wizard how things worked in his world, and did his best to explain the scientific principles. Bill taught Wesley about magic, real magic that couldn’t be learned, and wizard society and history. And the two of them combed over every inch of the newspaper, searching for some scrap of news about “He-who-must-not-be-named.”

That summer they traveled together on a Watchers-sponsored study program with several other students to Scotland, to study the indigenous ghosts. The next year they roomed together again until the last day of October, when Mr. Weasley came to return his son to Hogwarts.

Bill had insisted Wesley hear all the news of how The Unnamable had been defeated and Mr. Weasley reluctantly told the strange tale of a child who had somehow thrown the death-curse back.

Wesley received a few letters from Bill, delivered in the usual way, describing his happy return to school and the news of his family, and then, as is so often the way of boys, they became busy with other things, and the letters stopped.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wesley opened the drawer of his night-stand and took out a ballpoint pen and a tablet of paper.

“Dear Bill,” he wrote, “I would be very pleased to receive you on the 23rd. I hope you can stay a bit and catch up. I am curious to hear how your family is, not to mention the world of wizards. I hope things are going well. I think of you often.”

Wesley re-read his words, and shaking his head, added, “Please forgive the disjointedness of this letter. I’m afraid your owl caught me at a rather late hour. I do look forward to visiting with you.”

He signed it the same way that Bill did, the same as when they were boys, “Your friend, Wesley.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The entire morning of the 23rd, Wesley was practically bouncing off the walls of his apartment with excitement and nerves. He’d broken out his best tea, and the imported biscuits from England and Scotland. He’d lit candles to try and give a homier feel to his Spartan apartment, and opened the drapes to let in more light.

At about two in the afternoon, there was a flash of green in his fireplace, and Bill Weasley stepped out into the living room. “I say, that worked very well,” he said. “I shall have to let father know.”

Wesley stood up slowly, staring. He hadn’t seen Bill in nearly fifteen years, and barely recognized him, now. The bright red hair had grown long and been pulled back into a ponytail. From one ear dangled an earring, and his clothing was loose-fitting and stylish. Wesley felt uncomfortable in his old sweater and shabby apartment, but Bill took no notice. He threw his arms around Wesley’s shoulders and clapped him affectionately on the back.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said warmly. “I can’t believe how long it’s been.”

Wesley hugged him back, re-assured by his heartfelt greeting, and bade him sit while Wesley fetched the tea.

“So how have you been?” Wesley asked when tea, cups, sugar, milk, and a plate of biscuits had been arranged on the sofa table. 

“Doing well,” Bill said, pouring himself some tea. “It’s been great working in Egypt, though I don’t see the family as often as I’d like. The goblins who run the bank are pretty strict, but fair. It’s honest work for honest pay, and they stay hands-off and let me do my job, for the most part.”

“And you family?” Wes said. “How are they?”

Bill’s expression grew thoughtful. “I just realized,” he said. “I don’t think I ever wrote you to tell you about the last baby. The Weasley boys finally had a sister, Ginny. She’s a little over a year younger than Ron. She’s in her third year at Hogwarts. Charlie’s off studying dragons. Percy got a job with the Ministry of Magic, and you really wouldn’t believe what he’s got up to otherwise. Fred and George are still… well, they’re the beaters for their house Quidditch team, which really tells you what they’re like.”

Wesley, who had never absorbed the finer points of Quidditch, took Bill’s word for it.

“Ron’s doing well, too,” Bill said, “although you’ll never guess. Remember Harry Potter? The baby who somehow survived you-know-who? He’s in Ron’s class at Hogwarts, and the two of them are best chums. I met him at the Quidditch World Cup this part summer. Nice boy, and completely unaffected. He was raised in a muggle family, you see.”

Wesley smiled fondly. It was nice to catch up like this. Almost like normal people.

“But tell me about yourself,” Bill said. “I came because I heard you were working with a vampire. How did that come about?”

Wesley shifted uncomfortably. “Well, the thing of it is… I don’t anymore,” he said. “It’s a rather long story, but he tried to smother me while I was in hospital.”

Bill sat forward a bit. “You see, I’ve always thought vampires couldn’t be trusted. They’ve been trying to make inroads at the Ministry of Magic for years, saying they’ve just been portrayed in a bad light…”

“No, no,” Wesley interrupted. “It’s not like that. Angel, he’s the vampire I worked with… he’s different from other vampires. He has a soul, a conscience. When he attacked me, well, he felt he had a very good reason. He’s since tried to make an apology, of sorts, in his own way, but…” Wesley shook his head. “It’s so complex,” he went on. “I just needed to get away from all of it for awhile… Things seem so out of control at times.”

Bill frowned. “Don’t worry about it, then,” he said. “Let’s just talk. Have you ever been to Egypt?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three hours later the mood had brightened considerably. The intervening years had seemed to fall away, and both were telling stories and laughing like they were schoolboys again. No longer constrained from using magic outside Hogwarts as he had been as a teenager, Bill pulled out his magic wand for a demonstration. Wesley had been amazed at the ease with which a born wizard could manipulate matter. He made the pictures of flowers that were painted on the teacups into real roses, fresh and fragrant and moist with dew, then turned them into rose-shaped tarts that tasted of berries and cream.

At last Bill said he would have to take his leave, but before he left Wesley asked what his question about vampires was.

Bill looked a bit embarrassed. “Well, we’ve some vampires we need to keep out of the vaults,” he said. “Of course, the problem is they’ve already been invited in once. You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s any way to… un-invite them, would you?”

Wesley laughed out loud, unable to believe the wizard world didn’t know a spell that he himself had performed at least a dozen times. “Is that all?” he said. “Let me just print out the file from my computer.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bill “apparated” from Wesley’s fireplace shortly thereafter in a spectacular burst of green flame, with promises to write soon and often. After he’d gone, Wesley had another cup of tea, noting with amusement that the vines on the side of the cup were already putting out shoots for new roses.

A little later, there was knock on Wesley’s door. He answered it to find Lilah, a sparkling vision in a silver gown and diamond jewelry. She held up two champagne flutes and a bottle. “Toast to the season?” she suggested.

“Lilah. Come in,” Wesley said, leading her back to the sofa. She eyed the tea and biscuits suspiciously.

“Have the junior league over for a party?” she said.

“Must everything be a challenge with you?” Wesley replied wearily. “Can’t we just talk like civilized human beings?”

She pursed her mouth to make a tart reply, then thought better of it and sat down, setting the wine and glasses on the floor.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Wesley sat down opposite and sighed. “Just talk,” he said. “Like we might actually care whether the other lives or dies.” He shook his head, then looked up. “How was your day?” he asked.

She studies him a moment before deciding that maybe this wasn’t a game. “Hectic,” she said. “Trying to get things in order before the holidays; it’s always a nightmare.”

“Sounds beastly,” Wesley said, pouring her a cup of tea. “Still, you’ve two days off…”


	3. A Great Miracle Happened Here: Willow and Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.

**3:27 p.m., December 1st, 2002**

“Just hold the edges together while I pipe in the icing.”

“Don’t be afraid to really glop it on there, Dawn. No one will see inside anyway.”

Okay, now’s the tricky part: adding the third wall.”

“Why don’t we let it harden a little bit. That way it will be less precarious when we lean it on there.”

“Good idea. You want some cocoa?”

“That’d be great.”

Dawn took the chocolate and marshmallows down from the cabinet, then filled a pan with milk and put it on the stove, the heat low to warm it slowly. She sat down again next to Willow and stared at the two slabs of gingerbread cemented at a right angle to each other with a mixture of 10x sugar and egg whites.

“So what do you think?” Dawn said. “M&Ms all along the edges? Kind of like Christmas lights. Oooh. And I saw in the magazine how to make a sleigh and reindeer out of miniature pretzels.”

“Whatever you want,” Willow said.

“Come on, Will,” Dawn cajoled. “I thought you were into this.”

“I am,” Willow said. “It’s just… Christmas doesn’t really do it for me.”

Dawn frowned, thinking, then smiled. “I know,” she said. “We’ll make it a Hanukkah House.”

Willow laughed. “A what?”

“A Hanukkah House! Blue and white icing instead of red and green. A little icing menorah in the window. And we can use chocolate coins for roof shingles!”

Willow nodded, liking the idea. “Okay, let’s do it,” she said.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They spent the rest of the afternoon putting the house together, Dawn’s enthusiasm catching Willow up, and the process was surprisingly smooth. Even the optional chimney and dormer windows balanced on the slanted roof.

The next day Dawn piped on icing to draw a door and windows while Willow laid row on row of gold-wrapped “shingles.” They finished the project by dolloping on icing “snow” and piping icicles before Dawn drew a tiny menorah with blue candles in the window and Willow added the yellow flames with the tip of a toothpick.

When it was finished, they admired their handiwork. “It almost looks real,” Dawn said, and Willow agreed. Buffy and Xander, when they saw it later that night, could not give enough compliments. Even Spike, who inhabited the house like a wraith, silent and lost, nodded and allowed the shadow of a smile to touch his lips.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

But that night, Willow awoke to Dawn’s urgent shaking of her shoulder. “What’s wrong? Is it Buffy?”

“No,” Dawn said, glancing towards the bedroom door. “It’s… it’s the house.”

Willow checked the ceilings and walls for blood but Dawn qualified, “not this house. The gingerbread one.”

Willow climbed out of bed and followed Dawn downstairs. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

“Just look,” Dawn said.

The gingerbread house had changed, subtly but most definitely. The windows were partially transparent, and a soft light glowed through them. The once-smooth gingerbread walls were now textured, like tiny bricks. And there were hushed voices coming from inside.

“Is it evil?” Dawn asked.

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Willow admitted. “It doesn’t seem like it. I mean, it’s not like the other manifestations. It doesn’t seem to be trying to affect us in any way.”

“Then why is it like this?”

Willow sighed. “It might have been me,” she said. “I really wanted it to be as realistic as possible, and spending so much time working on it, maybe I… inadvertently… put a small… spell on it?”

“Maybe,” Dawn said, looking closer at the tiny house. “Is there some way to be sure?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A half-awake Spike squinted at the gingerbread creation, and rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. He leaned down and tried to peer into the windows, and sniffed all around.

“Well?” Willow asked.

“Nope, just normal Hellmouth weirdness,” he said. “Nothing extra evil. Congratulations. You made a recapitulative facsimile, without even trying.”

“A whose the what now?” Dawn asked.

Spike yawned. “A sort of magical model,” he said. “You make a model of something, put the magic in it, and whatever happened to the original gets replayed. Wizards use them all the time to see how their spells affect things at a distance. You’re just getting whatever happened in the house you modeled this on.”

Dawn peered at the house herself. “How long will it go on?”

“Till the event, whatever it is, is over,” Spike said. “Then it’s just a big cookie again.”

“It’s replaying Hanukkah,” Willow said. 

“Well, Mazel-tov,” Spike mumbled, and he crept back to bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When the sun came up, the house was again, as Spike had said, a big cookie. Dawn and Willow discussed taking it apart, thus breaking the spell, but decided since there was no evil involved, there wasn’t any point. Still, the next night they found themselves watching the house come to life.

A second candle was lit in the window. They could hear the laughter of children, and later, the unmistakable scent of frying latkes. This last brought a wistful look to Willow’s face.

“My mother never made them,” she explained to Dawn. “All that fat was bad for us, she said. But when my gramma visited…” she smacked her lips. “…delicious.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next night Dawn gave Willow a pair of socks as a gift. “I heard they were traditional,” she said. The night after that, a vegetable grater and a sack of potatoes.

The fifth night, Willow bought a menorah and a box of blue candles, and she and Dawn lit them when the gingerbread house family did. Willow told Dawn the prayers and what they meant. 

At last, the eighth night arrived, and it was bittersweet. The two young women had grown to enjoy the family drama in miniature enacted on the sideboard, and knew they would miss it. They watched until the windows darkened, and it was once again a mere confection.

“Thanks,” Dawn said at last. “For bringing it to life.”

Willow smiled. “You know,” she said, “I don’t know if it was entirely an accident. Maybe… it’s what we needed this year.”

Dawn let out a long, contented sigh. “I think so, too,” she said.

Then Willow and Dawn sat quietly in the dark, waiting for the candles to go out.


	4. Where Meek Souls Will Receive Him Still: Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have to be honest with you guys. I really like doing the Christmas series every year. I start planning them weeks in advance, and start writing them in November. But AtS has made it so hard for me this year. Strife, mistrust, conflict… I mean, some have argued that makes for a great season (a debate I refuse to entertain at this joyous time) but seriously, what can I do with that? So this story is probably the most AU of all of them this year. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

**2:15 p.m., December 21st, 2002**

“We should get a tree,” Cordelia announced, gesturing to the corner of Connor’s loft. “We could put it right there.”

Connor looked at the corner, then back at Cordy as though her head had gone slightly soft. “A tree,” he repeated. “For what?”

Cordy rolled her eyes. “You know, a Christmas tree.”

Connor blinked, trying to figure this out. He knew what Christmas was. Holtz had given him some religious education, but having given up on a God who’d abandoned him, it was more of an academic exercise. There hadn’t been any mention of a tree, though.

He was about to ask Cordelia about it when she shook her head sadly and sat back on the bed. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s not important.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gunn and Fred looked up as Connor came into the lobby.

“I have some questions,” the boy said.

“So?” Gunn said. “What makes you think we have any answers?”

Connor narrowed his eyes. “It’s not about me. It’s about Cordelia.”

The other two became immediately concerned. “How is she?” Fred asked. “Is she all right?”

“Is she hurt?” Gunn asked.

“No, she’s fine,” Conner said. “But she seemed sad. She said she wanted a Christmas tree and… I don’t know what that is.”

Fred and Gunn exchanged glances, then looked towards the center of the lobby. Connor turned to see a tall evergreen, covered with shiny, colored bubbles and tiny toys. Small lights shone through its branches.

He approached it, hands on hips, and studied it. “I don’t get it,” he said after a moment. “What does it do?”

Fred came out from behind the counter. “It… well, it’s for Christmas. It’s decorative. Festive.” She struggled for an explanation. “You see, Christmas is a big celebration. Families get together, there are big dinners and presents and songs. And they put up decorations, like the trees, and wreaths, and poinsettias… I’m not explaining this very well.”

“Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ, the Savior,” Gunn interrupted. “It’s a Holy Day.”

“I know that,” Connor snapped. “But the people of this land aren’t especially devout followers. You,” he added pointedly, “do not live the lives of true believers. What is it about this day?”

“We do believe,” Gunn said. “We may not always show it…”

“Is that what Cordelia wants, then?” Connor asked. “Is this about her faith?”

“It’s not just that,” Fred said. “It’s become a sort of… cultural holiday. A time for family, and togetherness…”

Just then, Lorne entered from the office. “For the love of Pete,” he said, “what are you kids arguing about? You’re disrupting the emotional flow.”

“I wish to celebrate Christmas for Cordelia,” Connor said. “But I don’t understand what she wants.”

“We’re trying to explain,” Fred said, “but it’s so complex… the traditions, the feelings…”

“And don’t ignore the spiritual,” Gunn said quietly. “It is what Christmas is about.”

“You want an outsider’s perspective?” Lorne asked. “The whole wise man, virgin birth, shepherds and angels mess doesn’t mean anything. What people really want is parties and songs and lots of presents. You get Cordelia a snow-sprayed tree, a couple pretty trinkets, and a recording of dogs barking out jingle bells, she’ll be happier than Tiny Tim.”

Connor stared in blank confusion while Gunn and Fred started their protests.

“That’s a pretty superficial description,” Fred said.

Lorne rolled his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he said. “Tell me everyone out at the Sherman Oaks Galleria going into debt picking out the perfect gift gives two figs about their fellow man the other 364 days a year. I read minds; I know what they’re thinking.”

“But it shouldn’t be that way,” Gunn grumbled.

“Listen, kid,” Lorne said to Connor, “take Cordelia down to the Promenade, buy a nice Douglas Fir from the Jaycees and set it up in your little squatters’ nest. Cordy’ll know what to do, and you’ll get the idea once you see it.”

“But I still don’t understand why,” Connor said. 

“Nobody really does, panda,” Lorne said.

Angel appeared on the balcony above the lobby, drawn by the voices below. “Connor,” he said quietly, knowing the boy could hear him. His son looked up.

“Bring Cordelia here on Christmas Eve,” Angel said. “Have dinner with us, and go with Fred and Gunn to church.”

“Will that make her happy?”

“It’s a start,” Angel said. “She misses having a family. And she needs that this time of year.”

Connor nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Connor looked sideways at Cordelia as they sat side by side in the pew. Angel had been right; this did seem to be making her happier. Her eyes were bright, and there was the sweetest smile on her face.

When they lit their candles for the final song, her face seemed to have a glow of its own, and when she turned her smile to Connor, he felt warm all over.

Afterwards, they walked back to the hotel, where Fred had left a seven-fish stew heating for dinner, and ate it with hot bread and cider. Angel was there, but he was setting a relaxed tone, his usual darker moods absent this night. Cordelia told Connor later, in confidence, that he always seemed happier at the holidays.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Angel told them when the evening had wound down, and Cordelia had been so pleased by the suggestion that Connor had reluctantly agreed. Still, sleep came uneasily to the young man, and in the still, small hours of the night he rose to prowl the hotel which was so recently his home.

Not surprisingly, he found Angel awake and roaming the halls himself. Father and son met with awkward silence, the boy posturing angrily, the vampire resolute.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Connor said. “The rest of them might be sentimental, but I’m not. This means nothing to me.”

An expression of pained amusement flitted across Angel’s features. “And here I’d always imagined you’d be a sophomore at Notre Dame when we had the ‘I-won’t-follow-your-hypocritical-materialistic-beliefs-anymore’ discussion,” he said. “But then, I imagined a lot of things differently.”

Connor gave a sneer. “Like what?”

“Come with me,” Angel said.

Connor followed reluctantly, resentful, yet unable to resist his own curiosity. They went into Angel’s old rooms. The hardware had been repaired, and there was fresh paint on the walls, but there was still the acrid smell of the earlier fire, if your senses were sensitive.

“It was only a year ago,” Angel said, moving into the alcove, “when you were small enough to hold in my hands. Small, but perfect. I thought I knew love before you came. I had no idea.”

Connor waited, not sure where this was going, but wanting to hear it all the same.

“Your cradle was right here,” Angel went on, gesturing down. “And I’d lie there,” he pointed to the bed, “listening to you breathe, and your heart beating, and I’d think about what would happen to you.”

Angel crossed his arms and looked out the window into the street below. He spoke again, knowing Connor would hear him. “I never expected a child,” he said. “I didn’t even imagine I would have such a gift. But once you were here, you became everything to me. If I’d had to tear the world down to its foundation and build it up again for you, I’d have found a way to do it, Connor.”

Still the boy said nothing, but he edged sideways, so his father could not glimpse his reflection in the glass. 

“Last year, I imagined where we might be tonight,” Angel said. “I thought you would be just beginning to walk, maybe saying a few words.” He smiled ruefully. “Da-da would be the first, of course. And I’d put you to bed, and then Cordy and I, and the rest of them would stay up late drinking eggnog and wrapping your presents. Then in the morning you’d wake up and see the lights on the tree, and you’d laugh and get so excited.”

Angel shook his head. “I lost all of that,” he said. “I lost first steps, and first words, and the first day of school, and Christmases and birthdays. Your whole childhood, gone in a year, while I mourned for you.” He turned back to Connor, blinking. “Maybe, if you have your own children, you’ll understand,” he said. “I don’t expect you to now.”

Connor stared at his father. A dozen sarcastic and hateful things came to mind, but he bit all of them back, and was silent.

Angel shook his head again, dismissing the black mood from the room. “You’d better go back to Cordelia,” he said. “She’s more calm with you around.”

Connor seemed to break out of a trance, and moved towards the door. “It was, by the way,” he said.

“It was what?”

“My first word. Da-da,” Connor said. “Father… Holtz told me.”

Angel’s face grew thoughtful for a moment. “Was he… a good father to you, Connor?”

The boy’s face was an unreadable mask. “The best,” he said, then he was down the hall and gone. 

Angel turned back to the window, and stared without seeing, at the Christmas lights below.


	5. Mele Kalikimaka: Xander and Buffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from an old fifties song, and is supposedly the Hawaiian phrase for “Merry Christmas.”

**1:30 p.m., December 19th, 2002**

“Buffy, please, can you stop stressing about the food,” Xander begged, a slightly desperate note of exasperation coming into his voice. “It doesn’t matter if we have a huge feast, okay?”

Buffy looked up for the greatrecipes.com website. “It matters to me,” she said, and Xander gave himself a mental slap for forgetting this simple fact. He slid into the chair beside her.

“I know it’s important to you,” he said, “but I think you’re making yourself a little crazy. Maybe you should look into some alternatives.”

Buffy’s shoulders sagged. “It’s just… ever since Mom died, Dawn and I have been living on pizza and soup and instant mac and chee,” she said. “I thought, at least on Christmas, we could have a normal meal. I mean, we ate at a hotel for Thanksgiving.”

Xander, who had found said hotel in addition to treating the two sisters (plus Willow), looked stricken, so Buffy immediately back-pedaled. “No, no, I don’t mean it that way,” she said. “It was delicious, and we had a wonderful time. Really. And you know Dawn and I totally appreciated it. But… I don’t know. I just think things should be more traditional.”

Xander sat down and took Buffy’s hand. He braced himself for a rare display of candor. “Buff,” he said, “tradition at my parents’ home means starting with eggnog, moving on quickly to egg-free nog, and culminating in screaming matches and broken dishware. Traditional is pretty over-rated, as far as I’m concerned.”

Buffy smiled sadly. “I just want to make things happy,” she said. “Other people have nice holidays. Why can’t we?”

“We can,” Xander affirmed. “But why does happiness only have to come from a fifteen-pound turkey and a bowl of figgy pudding?”

Buffy pouted slightly. “What if I want figgy pudding?” she said unconvincingly.

“Do you even know what figgy pudding is?” Xander asked.

Buffy tried to frown at Xander’s smirk, gave up, and laughed instead. “No,” she said. “But maybe I want it anyway.”

“But if it makes you crazy and stressed, then what’s the point?” Xander said. “Why don’t we just do what we enjoy?”

Buffy considered this. “Well, like what?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Anya, Spike and Xander sat around the dining room table, a notepad and pencil in front of each. “Okay. Close your eyes,” Xander began, and they did.

“Now,” he said, “imagine it’s Christmas in Sunnydale. Seventy-two degrees with low humidity and a thirty percent chance of magical snow.” Buffy frowned at this, but said nothing. “We’re all here. We’ve got the family vibe going on. Now, look around the room, and notice what’s there. Dinner gets served and we all sit down. What do you reach for?” Xander looked around the table. They all had their eyes closed and appeared to be lost in concentration.

“Okay, open your eyes,” Xander said, “and write down everything you remember.”

Dawn and Anya picked up their pencils and began writing. Buffy and Willow took a minute to gather their thoughts, then followed suit. Only Spike seemed to hesitate a long time before finally beginning his list.

When they had finished, Xander gathered the papers and began a list of his own with slash marks after several items.

“This is good,” he said after a moment. “It really helps put our priorities in order. For starters, the tree seems to be important to everyone, so we’ll get that tomorrow. And almost everyone agrees on presents, which is good because I’ve already gotten you all something. Almost all of you,” he amended, glancing in Spike’s direction.

The vampire looked up, the guileless, slightly-confused look they’d come to know so well on his face. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

“As I was saying,” Xander said. “there are some things that only one person wants.” He held up one sheet. “For instance, only one person thinks turkey is important…”

“It is,” Buffy said.

“Way to preserve the anonymity, there, Buff,” Xander said. “But my point is, why go nuts cooking turkey if it’s not important to anyone else?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say it wasn’t important,” Willow said. “It just didn’t immediately come to mind.”

“What is it with you and turkey?” Buffy asked Xander defensively. “Do you have, like, deep-seated turkey issues?”

”I don’t like turkey,” Anya put in. “I much prefer ham.”

“Wait,” Dawn said. “Are all these things coming down to a vote? If I’m the only one who wants victory cookies, they don’t get made? That just bites!”

“That’s right,” Willow said. “My traditions aren’t even Christmas traditions. Do I not get to celebrate Solstice because the non-Wiccans have the majority? Why don’t we just set up a dunking stool?”

“Willow has a point,” Anya said. “The constitution does provide protection for minority religious beliefs.”

Xander blinked at his ex-girlfriend, wondering how the constitution had come into it.

“And what if some things are, like, really extra-important,” Buffy argued.

“I have a suggestion,” Spike said softly, and the rest gave him their attention. “After you decide what most of you want, why don’t you each pick one thing that’s really important to you, and the rest will see that it gets done.”

Xander nodded. This situation hadn’t come up in the Team Building seminar he’d attended in August, but Spike was offering a good compromise. “Okay,” he said, handing out fresh sheets of paper. “Everyone write down one thing…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander and Buffy brought home the tree the next day and all of them decorated it together. They played Nat King Cole and The Trans-Siberian Orchestra on the stereo, and Dawn mixed mug after mug of her mother’s hot chocolate.

In the evening, they helped Dawn fulfill her special tradition, preparing batch after batch of her family’s holiday cookies: oatmeal with raisins, gingerbread bears, and Dawn’s favorite, from a WWII-era cookbook, Victory Stars.

The house was warm and smelled of cinnamon and cloves when they packed the cookies into tins and cleaned up the kitchen. Xander and Anya lingered at the door, unwilling to go home to their empty apartments.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Willow knelt on the hearth, an oak log draped with holly leaves and canes of rosemary on her lap. The fireplace contained a nice, hot bed of coals, and yellow flames jumped up here and there.

“Cerridwen,” Willow intoned gravely. “We call upon you to bring your blessings into this house, in these, the darkest days of the year. May this log burn brightly, to light our path, and bring warmth into this circle.”

Carefully, Willow set the Yule Log upon the andirons, where it quickly caught fire and began to burn. Willow, and the rest of them gathered in the living room, watched it quietly for several minutes.

“Now what?” Anya said at last.

Willow frowned. “I think we just have to be in the house while it burns,” she said, “but we can do other things.”

“That’s good,” Anya said, “because I’d like to engage in my favorite tradition, now.” She walked over to the TV and picked up one of the boxes on top, a rental from Steve’s Video. Moments later, the soft strains of a jazz piano trio filled the room, while on the screen two cartoon children discussed the feeling (or lack thereof) of the holiday season.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Who keeps changing these?” Buffy asked as she turned the angel ornaments back to face the room, then walked into the kitchen with a shopping bag full of last-minute purchases. Her friends had convinced her to let them help prepare as many of the dishes as they could the day before, which was good, as they had run out of sage, vinegar, and mini-marshmallows.

In the kitchen, Xander, Dawn, Anya, Willow, and even Spike were helping with the preparations, shredding bread for the stuffing, chopping celery and onions, and, in Xander’s case, gingerly attempting to remove the bird’s packaged innards.

On the counters and in the fridge were also the makings of the rest of the meal, as the group, having conceded to Buffy’s desire for turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and string beans, had filled out the menu with somewhat less traditional fare, including basmati rice with curry, nachos el grande, and bagel mini-pizzas.

Buffy asked Xander to spend the night, and Xander, having prepared for this hopeful possibility by stashing his gifts for them all in his trunk, gratefully accepted. Dawn made another round of hot chocolate to put them all to sleep, and Buffy carefully restrained Spike by chaining him to the lazy-boy before they all went off to bed.

Xander, sleeping on the couch, lay awake for awhile, watching the twinkling lights on the tree cast shifting patterns on the ceiling. What a strange family they’d all made together, he thought.

At last drowsy enough to drift to sleep, Xander got up to douse the lights, but Spike’s voice, soft and eerie in the darkness, stopped him.

“Could you leave them on?” the vampire said. “I hate to ask. It’s just… so dark.” The last words were barely a whisper.

In spite of his resolve to give Spike no sympathy, Xander felt his heart squeeze a little. It must have been growing up on the Hellmouth, he thought, but his pity gland always seemed ready to kick into action. He got back into bed, leaving the tree-lights burning.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They awoke the next morning and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before moving onto the gifts. There were the usual clothes and jewelry, CDs and videos, books and games, ornate magical items and brightly polished weapons. Even Spike got some warm clothes, a new blanket, and an oversized mug for his blood.

Dinner was served, everyone partaking of the eclectic menu, and later they told ghost stories by the fireplace, a tradition Spike had wished to indulge.

Giles called with his warm wishes, and Buffy retreated to the bedroom for nearly an hour to try to bring him up to date. Afterwards, they all played games and watched some of the videos they’d gotten. Anya left around midnight, and Willow and Dawn drifted to bed soon after. 

Buffy chained Spike in his chair again, noting he was starting to get twitchy and realizing it would probably be back to business as usual, with big evil and crazy vampires in the morning. But one day off was nice.

She joined Xander in the kitchen, and they cleaned up the last of the dinner dishes. “Good idea,” she told him. “With the list and everything.”

“Thanks,” he said. 

“Only one problem,” she added coyly. “I don’t seem to recall any special traditions being suggested by the Xander-shaped faction of this little group.”

Xander smiled. “I got exactly what I wanted,” he said.


	6. Wild and Sweet, the Words Repeat: The Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A far imagined future. Lots of character deaths referred to, so consider yourself warned if that sort of thing bothers you.

**7:05 a.m., Christmas Day, 2068**

_"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"_

_It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them._

_"Lead on," said Scrooge. "Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit."  
\---“A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens_

Spike padded silently down the stairs in the gray, pre-dawn light, and made his way into the kitchen to start the kettle and prepare for breakfast. He’d tried to get Dawn to sleep in, to get the rest she needed, telling her the family wouldn’t start arriving for hours, but she was as determined as she’d ever been. It was Christmas, and she wouldn’t stay in bed, so Spike acquiesced and began his usual morning ritual 

He opened the front curtains, the ones with the northern exposure, and angled Dawn’s easy chair so she could easily gaze out to see her children and their children, and even their children as they arrived. Then he went back up to fetch Dawn herself. 

“I can walk, William,” she protested as he carried her down the steps, the same as she did every morning, but it was only a token argument, and they both knew it. He set her carefully in the chair, and moved the breakfast table in front of her.

“Breakfast won’t be but a mo’,” he said. “And the tea will be done directly. Can I get you anything?”

She looked over at the sideboard, and the pictures lined up neatly on it. “Could you light the candles?” she said. 

“Of course,” he told her, and moved to light the small votives before each frame. Joyce first, then all in a line, Tara, Giles, Buffy, Charles, Faith, Willow, Dawn’s husband, Tom, Anya, Wesley, and Xander. All gone. Xander, the last, was just this fall, discovered by Spike himself when Dawn had sent him to Xander’s apartment after the retired builder had failed to make his usual check-in call one crisp morning. The coroner had declared it a heart attack in his sleep, and Spike knew this was a far more peaceful end than Xander had imagined growing up on the Hellmouth.

The kettle began to whistle, and Spike brought a tray with tea, sugar, and milk out to the living room. He ignored Dawn telling him not to fuss, and prepared the cup as she liked before setting it in her hands. He touched the backs of her hands as he did, and the skin there was like tissue paper.

“You’re so good to me,” Dawn said. “All these years since Tom died. Not a thought for yourself…”

“Promised your sis, didn’t I,” Spike said. “Now let me attend to breakfast.” He quickly turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears starting in his eyes. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dawn’s oldest daughter and her husband arrived first, then the rest of family arrived in quick succession: Dawn’s son and another daughter and their spouses, seven grandchildren, three with spouses and one with a “life-partner,” and four great-grandchildren. 

Angel came just past midday with his two current “warriors,” young half-demon twins who’d been fighting alongside him for about four years, sprinting in from the panel truck under a heavy quilt. Most of the humans in attendance regarded the twins, with their yellow eyes and long, pointed ears, with cool politeness, and before long they left their vampire associate at the party alone and went off to find more companionable company.

Connor breezed through in the afternoon, arriving on his motorcycle in a swirl of leather. He still looked the same as he had at age twenty-five, when his unique heritage had halted his aging process, giving the Powers That Be another preternaturally strong and ageless champion. And Cordelia stopped by for a few moments in the early evening, both arriving and departing on a cascade of glowing stars. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“How is Winifred?” Spike asked Angel when they were finally able to get off into a quiet corner by themselves.

The older vampire sighed softly. “She has her good days and bad days,” he said, repeating a cliché as old as he was. “Today was a very bad day.”

“I’m sorry,” Spike said.

“She… She screamed when she saw me…”

“Don’t,” Spike said. “It’s not her.” 

The two vampires fell silent and watched the party around them. They watched the younger ones regarding them with undisguised curiosity, knowing what they were, and yet, only seeing them two or three times a year, not really knowing them at all. They felt the resentful stares of the older ones, bitter that they should be growing older and suffering those pangs while these two remained unchanged from what they were, and not understanding the terrible price the vampires paid.

They watched Dawn as she spoke to her family, seeing the girl she used to be even as aged as she was.

“You don’t have to stay,” Angel said. “Her family…”

“I gave my word,” Spike said firmly. “I said I would look after and I will. They’d see her as a burden, but I haven’t got anything but time.”

Angel nodded. “You know you can’t protect her from everything,” he said. “Even now…”

“I know,” Spike snapped. “I’m with her every day. Did you think I wouldn’t know?” 

“No. Of course not,” Angel said, and they fell silent again, remembering the thing they couldn’t fight. How it took Anya fast, hit her hard and she was done in months. How it took Wesley slow, three years of pain and sickness and humiliation, until his insides had been churned to one great mass.

“She’s not afraid,” Spike said after a moment. “She’s lived a long and full life. She’s ready to go. And I promised her… there wouldn’t be any pain.”

Angel raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You would?”

Spike raised his chin firmly. “I’ll do what I have to,” he said. “It’s what I’ve always done.”

“When the time comes,” Angel said. “You know you always have a place with me.”

“I know,” Spike said, and after a moment added, “thanks.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“It was good party, wasn’t it,” Dawn said, as Spike lifted her into his arms and began to carry her towards the stairs.

“A very good party,” he agreed. 

She gave a last glance around the room. “I think that’s the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Spike said. “Very lovely.”

“Don’t forget to put out all the lights before you go to bed.”

“No, I won’t,” Spike assured her, and they began to slowly ascend the stairs. Dawn let her head fall against Spike’s shoulder. 

“You’re too good to me,” she said.

“Not as good as you deserve,” Spike told her. “Not by half.”

He set her down in her bedroom, knowing she’d be alright now. She put one frail hand on his cheek before he went to his own bed. “Thank you, William,” she said, “and Merry Christmas to you.”

Spike bent down and kissed her forehead gently. “It is my pleasure, little bit,” he said, and then he left her to her bed.


	7. How the Groosalug Saved Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was co-written by my husband, who went by Grim ,_,_) on the Cross and Stake boards.

**12:53 a.m., December 25th, 2002**

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through L.A.  
There was goodwill and quiet… Yeah, right! So *you* say!

The Lakers were nestled all snug on their court  
They played in twelve hours. To Staples Center, report!

The Groosalug, meanwhile, wasn’t playing with games.  
He was kicking some ass, and taking down names.

Since leaving his Princess, he felt quite bereft,  
And consoled himself thwarting rape, murder, and theft.

From crime scene to crime scene, he moved right along,  
For his head was confused, full of holiday song.

He’d heard about Santa from some kids on the street,  
And the jolly old fellow he wanted to meet.

For back in Pylea, there was no Christmas spirit.  
No presents! No eggnog! And singing? They fear it.

When up from the freeway rose a screech and a honk.  
“Hoorah,” thought the Groosalug. “More thugs’ heads to bonk!”

He sprang into action, he was ready to play.  
So he jumped o’er the barrier and saw a red sleigh!

A runner was broken; the sled up on blocks.  
“I told that elf Hermie he should check the shocks,”

Barked Santa into his Nokia phone,  
“I’m stuck in L.A., not far from Le Dome.

“Send for a tow truck or send triple-A,  
or anyone fast who can fix up my sleigh!

“It’s an emergency! Just get them here,  
Or the children won’t have any presents this year.”

“Allow me,” said Groo, and he made like a jack.  
“Listen,” said Santa, “I’ll call you right back.”

With strong back and arms, Groo shouldered his share,  
While Dancer and Blitzen made a hasty repair.

Back on two runners, it was now good as new,  
And all of the reindeer applauded our Groo.

“Good work, there, my boy,” old Santa did say.  
“I thought I’d be stuck until Valentine’s day.”

“Just one thing,” said Groo, as Santa made to depart.  
“I must ask a question that gnaws at my heart.

“What brings so much joy at this holiday season?  
I thought I’d ask you, surely you know the reason.”

And Santa, he smiled, his eyes full of cheer.  
“Why Groo,” he said, “I thought that’s why you were here.

“The real spirit of giving, it lives in your soul.  
When you find it, the empty place in you feels whole.

“You’ve found the secret. You’ve broken the code.  
Now go on helping others.” And away Santa rode.

Groo headed off then, set to fight the good fight.   
For in a world of such champions, it’s always a good night.


End file.
